


I'll Take the High Road

by Transposable_Element



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Backstory, Book: Prince Caspian, Canon Compliant, Gen, Narnian Subcultures, Secret Mission, Telmarine Age, Trees, Worldbuilding, journeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/pseuds/Transposable_Element
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pattertwig's journey to the Lantern Waste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marmota_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmota_b/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A few minutes later Pattertwig arrived and had his task explained to him. As he was, like many squirrels, full of courage and dash and energy and excitement and mischief (not to say conceit), he no sooner heard it than he was eager to be off. It was arranged that he should travel to the Lantern Waste while Trumpkin made the shorter journey to the river-mouth."
> 
> \-- _Prince Caspian_

The young Mole who was running messages that night woke Pattertwig out of a sound sleep to call him to the innermost chamber of the How. There King Caspian was meeting with his trusted counselors: Doctor Cornelius, Trumpkin, Trufflehunter, and Nikabrik. They wasted no time, but told Pattertwig that they had decided to summon aid by blowing the magic Horn of Queen Susan.

“We plan to wind the Horn at daybreak,” said Doctor Cornelius, “and we need to be prepared in case help does not come here to the How. Trumpkin will go to Cair Paravel, at the river’s mouth, and you, Pattertwig, will travel to the Lantern Waste, where the Kings and Queens of old first came to Narnia.”

“It is a perilous undertaking, so we ask only for volunteers,” added the young king.

“I care not for peril! I am swift and I can travel far without setting foot to ground, above the very heads of the enemy. I will go!” said Pattertwig, immediately. “My King, I will not fail you!” He would have said more, but Nikabrik cut him off. 

“Yes, Pattertwig, we know all that. That’s why I suggested you. You’re fast and you’re trustworthy, and you’re not much use in battle, so off you go.” Another Squirrel would have been offended, but Pattertwig and Nikabrik were old friends, and he knew that the Dwarf’s tough shell concealed a sound kernel. Besides, it was true that Pattertwig was not a fighter. Unlike the Mice he did not carry a weapon, so the best he could do in battle was to perch in a tree and throw missiles at the enemy, missiles too small to hinder most Men. So Pattertwig was employed mainly as a scout—one of the best in the king’s army, certainly, but not irreplaceable.

Pattertwig was eager to be away, but he did his best to curb his impatience while he discussed his route with Trufflehunter. The Lantern Waste lay west and north, and the shortest route was through lands thickly populated by Men. Not only that, but west of Beruna the Great River looped far to the south, and the most direct route to his destination would have him cross the river twice. This they judged too dangerous, so instead they agreed that he would travel through the woods south of the Great River until he came to the Archen River, which flowed into the Great River midway between Beaversdam and Beruna. The Archen should be easy enough to cross, but then he would have to go overland for several miles before he reached the relative safety of the Western Woods. This would be the most dangerous part of the journey.

“But it’s not far from where the Mice live,” Trufflehunter pointed out. “Perhaps there will be someone who can help you find your way safely to the woods.” After that Pattertwig would be able to travel in the trees again—the avenues of long branches that Squirrels call the High Road. Before reaching the Lantern Waste he would have to cross yet another river, the one that flowed down from Cauldron Pool into the Great River at Beaversdam, but at this time of year, when the water was low and slow, he should be able to swim across it without difficulty.

 

Pattertwig left the How before daybreak. He swarmed up a nearby oak and chose a branch that supported him easily, feeling the slight give and creak beneath his feet as he ran along it. Without deliberate thought, he knew how close to the tip of the branch he could go before losing too much of the resistance that would help propel him into the next tree. He pushed off with his hind legs, his tail arcing out behind, his forepaws reaching for the tip of the opposite branch; and then he landed and let his momentum carry him forward without a pause. He scampered in toward the trunk and out along another limb to leap to the next tree. He did it over and over again: speed, spring, alight, rebound: from oak to beech to ash. This was what a Squirrel was made to do! These were his home woods, and he knew them well.

By the time the king winded the Horn Pattertwig had gone many miles, so far that he would not have been able to hear it if it had been an ordinary horn. It was midmorning already, and he wondered why Caspian had waited so long to blow the Horn. But there was no mistaking it: clear and strong, a sound beyond sound. Pattertwig sat still on the branch for a moment, feeling it resonating in his flesh and bone. The Horn was not calling him, but he sensed its pull. It was calling somebody, and whoever it was, they would come. 

And someone must be there to meet them! He roused himself and hurried on. Not long after hearing the Horn he detoured slightly to the south to visit a tall beech where he kept one of his caches. There he rested briefly and ate his fill. He had far to go if he was to complete his overland leg and reach the woods on the far side of the Archen by sundown. He did not wish to be caught out in the open when night fell.

 

Pattertwig came to the edge of the woods at around noon. Before him lay the shallow gorge of the Archen River, where Glenstorm and his family lived (but of course now they were all at Aslan’s How). Willows and alders grew at the bottom of the gorge, but Pattertwig had been here many times before and knew there were no trees whose branches reached far enough over the river for him to cross it using the High Road. He would have to set foot to the ground. At least there were no Men about (there were few in this part of the country in any case, and many had been called away to the battle). He descended carefully to the earth and then ran quickly down into the gorge. When he reached the woods he climbed again, and then he worked his way downstream until he found the place where Glenstorm’s daughter Arrowleaf had placed stepping stones, artfully arranged to look natural, for the use of Dwarfs, who were not by nature swimmers, and the smaller Beasts.

Pattertwig descended to a low branch and leapt from it to the first boulder. Reflexively he sought purchase, but there was none: the stone was hard and smooth and wet with spray, and he skidded and slipped before finding his balance. The leap to the next stone took him out of the shadow of the trees and into the full sunlight. He leapt again, paws scrabbling against the stone. A hawk’s cry somewhere to the south made him freeze. There were few birds of prey large enough to threaten him, but some instincts of a dumb squirrel remained buried deep within his brain.

He forced himself into another leap, but he slipped again and this time could not recover. He slid off the stone and splashed into a shallow channel between two rocks. Choking and spluttering, he struggled to the surface, very glad that none of his friends were here to witness his clumsiness.

The rocks on either side were too steep and slick to climb, but the current was sluggish here, and Pattertwig thought perhaps it would be simpler to swim the rest of the way. So he paddled out into the pool below the stepping stones and struck out across the river. 

As he neared the middle of the river he found that the current was stronger than he had thought, and he felt himself being carried downstream ever more swiftly as the Archen ran down toward its confluence with the Great River. He was a strong swimmer, but he knew that if he allowed himself to be swept into the Great River he would be lost. He tried not to think of this as he struggled grimly against the current. Finally he reached the shallows on the opposite side. But there was no riverbank here, only steep, jagged rocks, and he had to swim downstream still further before he found a place where he could climb out.

Pattertwig dragged himself onto a bit of shingled beach and shook himself to drive the water from his fur, but he could not rest for more than a moment. He bounded over to the nearest tree and clawed his way up the trunk, back in his own element again, and traveled the High Road across the western side of the gorge.


	2. Granny and the Blackbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The next place they went to visit was quite near at hand, but they had to go a long way round to avoid a region in which Men lived. It was well into the afternoon before they found themselves in level fields, warm between hedgerows. There Trufflehunter called at the mouth of a little hole in a green bank and out popped the last thing Caspian expected...."
> 
> \-- _Prince Caspian_

On this side of the river the slope leading out of the gorge was a little steeper. At the top was a plateau, where Pattertwig halted to reconnoiter. He found himself in a narrow hedgerow that bordered a dirt track. Beyond the track lay broad fields of wheat. The river had carried him further downstream than he had realized, and he was deep into the territory of Men, where he had never intended to go. He was unsure of his way, but he knew the nearest reach of the Western Wood must be somewhere to the northwest. 

He considered his alternatives, none of them good: he could go south again, along the west bank of the Archen, until he came to the unsettled moorland where he could travel overland out of sight of Men, or he could travel directly northwest and risk being seen. The first route would take him far out of his way, and he might not reach the woods by nightfall; the second would put him in immediate danger of Men.

He looked again and listened for any sound of danger. His view was occluded by leaves and stalks, but the dumb birds and insects sang untroubled and he concluded there were no Men about. He was safe for the moment. 

Pattertwig took a deep breath and crept through the hedgerow onto the dirt track. It ran north-south, so he resolved to follow it northward as long as he could, having no desire to get lost amid the trackless wheat fields. He clung to the shadows of the hedgerow and after a few minutes began to feel he had made the best choice possible under the circumstances.

Then he rounded a curve and discovered his error.

The track widened, and ahead he saw what looked like a farmyard. Two Men were standing right in the middle of the track, one leaning on a hoe. Pattertwig’s heart leapt, but he kept his head, dashing into the field for cover. He froze among the stalks of grain, hoping that the two had not glimpsed him.

“Did you see that?” came a startled voice, higher than Pattertwig expected. The Man must be a Daughter of Eve.

“What was it, then?” asked another voice, sounding much less interested than the first.

“I thought it was a fox, but it didn’t move like one. I’d swear it looked more like a monstrous squirrel! Must be one of them Unnatural Beasts.”

“Well then, best leave it be,” said the bored Man, now sounding slightly nervous.

“No! The king’s men say he wants them captured. Dead or alive, they say.”

“Well I don’t—here! What are you doing?”

“Give me that hoe, girl. And go get Bran’s hunting bow out of the barn.”

Pattertwig cursed Miraz and his edicts. He heard one of the Men—it sounded like the larger of the two—approaching the field where he had bolted into the grain, and he didn’t wait to see what she would do. He ran, dodging among the stalks, hoping he was not making too much noise. At the same time his heart sank because he knew that here in the field he could not be certain of his direction. But what counted now was to stay clear of the Men. Once he had lost them he could decide what to do next.

He ran away from the sound of the two Men as they moved about in the field, but the stalks were thick, and it was difficult to keep a straight course. After some minutes one of them spoke again. “Eh, we’ve lost it,” said the bored voice, farther away now. Pattertwig prayed that the other would heed her.

“I’m going to keep looking,” said the other, obstinately. Pattertwig heard a twang that sounded like someone testing a bowstring. He felt like chittering in frustration, but now it was more important than ever to hold his tongue. At least the Men were further away from him than they had been.

He decided to keep quiet for a bit, hoping that they would give up. But it was difficult to keep still, and he struggled to control his growing panic. He had to get out of here before sundown, but the Men were still nearby—he could hear the low murmur of their voices—so he couldn’t go back to the open track, even if he could find it. And there was nothing that he could climb to get his bearings. He looked around desperately.

“Do you need some help, dearie?”

At first Pattertwig couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. Anxiously he crept toward it and found that he was nearing a narrow track between two sections of the field. Then he spied a grey, whiskered snout poking out of a hole in a low hillock by the edge of the track, partially concealed by a tuft of grass. He crept a little closer to the hole and saw a bright-eyed old Mouse peering out at him.

“Well, I haven’t seen one of you lot for ever such a long time,” she said, her voice pitched carefully low. “Always happy to meet another Chiseller, I must say. I remember when I was a young Mouse, there was a gentleman Squirrel that used to call on my grandfather. But there are so few of us left these days. Even the Mice are scarce. And now my grandson’s away at the wars, and I haven’t spoken to a living soul in days.”

“Your grandson? He’s with King Caspian’s army?”

“Yes, of course, dearie. He’s quite the flower of Mousehood, if you please!” She laughed squeakily.

“Perhaps I know him, then. I’m one of the king’s scouts. What’s his name?”

The old lady Mouse squeaked. After a moment Pattertwig realized she was saying her grandson’s name.

“Rikikik?” he tried.

“That’s it, more or less.”

“I’ve never heard the name. Oh—or did you mean Reepicheep?”

“Is that what he’s calling himself nowadays? Well, I suppose one must make allowances for them as can’t speak proper like Mice.” The old Mouse shook her head ruefully. “And who might you be?”

“Pattertwig, ma’am,” he said (he too had adopted a name easier for others to pronounce). “And Reep’s a good friend of mine.”

“Then you may call me Granny,” she said.

“Thank you… er, Granny.” Pattertwig couldn’t help wondering what Reepicheep would think of this—if he ever had the chance to tell him about it. “I could certainly use some help getting out of here.”

“I’ve a very snug burrow, if you need to hide from the Men. There’s only the two Daughters of Eve on the farm now, anyway. They’ll give up looking for you soon enough.” She backed away from the opening of the hole so that the tuft of grass fell further over it. “See how well-hidden the entrance is?” she added proudly.

Pattertwig didn’t move from his hiding place in the field. “Thank you, Granny, that’s a very kind offer. But I’m on a mission, and I can’t delay.”

The old Mouse wrinkled her brow. “Well then…” She looked up, so Pattertwig did, too. The sky above was blue and nearly cloudless: a perfect summer day. There was no sound but the faraway murmur of the Men’s voices and the buzzing of insects in the grain.

The old Mouse whistled. It sounded like a birdcall. “Not bad, eh?” she said. “I learnt it from my friend—ah, there she is,” she continued, as a blackbird appeared above their heads. The bird flew down and lit on a stem near the base of a stalk of wheat, cocking its head. Pattertwig looked curiously at it. Was it a Talking Bird, or a dumb bird? Usually it was easy to tell, but now he wasn’t sure. Judging by the look on the bird’s face he would have guessed it was intelligent, but it did not speak, only looked at him expectantly.

“Poor thing,” said Granny, apparently guessing Pattertwig’s confusion. “She’s a Talking Bird all right, but when she was barely a fledgling both her parents got killed. I think a cat got her mum and the Men got her dad, but to tell the truth I’m not rightly certain. She grew up among the dumb ones, you see, so she can’t talk much, though she understands well enough.”

“Was there nobody else to take her in?”

“No. Most of the Birds left long ago—they flew up north to the marshes, where Men don’t go, or down south to Archenland. Can’t really blame them.”

Pattertwig nodded. The same was true in his home woods. In the normal way of things many Birds migrated, south in winter or north in summer, depending on their disposition. Since the Telmarines came, those that migrated often stayed in places where they didn’t have to hide what they were. Fewer came back to Narnia every year.

Granny explained Pattertwig’s predicament to the blackbird, who listened intently. “Can you guide him out, Blackie? To the woods, and away from the Men, understand?” The bird nodded. “She can lead you through the fields and keep you hidden most of the way,” Granny said.

“Thanks, Granny. I’m in your debt,” Pattertwig said. He was sure Reepicheep would never let him live this down, but that was no matter.

“You’d better have something to eat before you go,” Granny said, and Pattertwig waited while she disappeared into her burrow. She returned a minute later with a small bowl filled with seeds. The blackbird took a few seeds and Pattertwig quickly ate the rest. He thanked the old Mouse again and made ready to set off.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me what you’re up to,” Granny said wistfully.

“I’m afraid not. But if all goes well, then perhaps I’ll be able to tell you about it one day.”

“I look forward to it. And when you see my grandson you’ll tell him from me to keep out of trouble, hey?” said Granny.

“I will if you wish me to, but I don’t think it will do much good,” said Pattertwig.

The old Mouse laughed. “Oh, to be sure! But go well, and do us Chisellers proud.”

“I’ll do my best, Granny!”

 

The journey through the fields of Men was long and exhausting. Judging by roads and hedgerows and fencing, they crossed through at least four different farmsteads. Looking up to to keep the Bird in sight made Pattertwig’s neck hurt and his head ache. It was worst going through fields of grain, where he felt stifled and trapped, discomfited by his inability to see where he was going. A Squirrel is not built to slog his way through this kind of country.

The Blackbird was clearly frustrated by his slowness, flying sometimes in zigzags or circles and a couple of times disappearing from overhead altogether, so that he feared she had abandoned him. But after a few anxious moments she always came back. It was easier when they came to pastureland, for the visibility was better and it was more comfortable even though he felt exposed. The best moment was when they came to an apple orchard, but this they crossed all too quickly.

Finally they came to the edge of a field and looked out upon a bit of moorland beyond which he could see the edge of the woods. Men liked to have a buffer between themselves and the forest. The country was open enough for him to see his way, but there was plenty of low bushy cover if he needed it. The Blackbird landed nearby and looked at him. She chirruped in a reedy voice, repeating the same noises several times, and Pattertwig realized she was trying to speak. He thought she was saying something like “All well?”

“Yes, all’s well. Thank you for guiding me. Will you tell Granny I’m safe?” Pattertwig asked, speaking slowly and carefully (which does not come naturally to a Squirrel!). The Blackbird nodded once and then rose up into the air and flew back over the fields.


	3. The Western Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There was certainly a noise in the glade, a noise such as trees make in a high wind, though there was no wind tonight. Yet it was not exactly an ordinary tree-noise, either....And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving—moving in and out through one another as in a complicated country dance."
> 
> \-- _Prince Caspian_

Pattertwig was trembling with exhaustion, but he told himself that he had not far to go, and that he would feel better once he was back among the trees. And it was true. He bounded across the moorland toward the forest. The sun was setting now, off to his left, so he could see that he was traveling nearly due north. It seemed that his unplanned detour, as uncomfortable as it had been, had saved him some miles.

He reached the woods without incident, and as he scaled the trunk of a young oak he felt a tremendous rush of affection for the trees, which Squirrels love much as Men love the earth (or ought to). Trees were food, shelter, safety: the source of everything a Squirrel needs. He stroked the oak’s trunk with his paw gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. He knew that the spirit of the tree was asleep and couldn’t hear him, but just for a moment he fancied that he felt the tree shift beneath his paw.

Pattertwig hadn’t gone far before he decided it was too dark to go on and he ought to begin looking for a place to sleep. He found a likely tree and ran up and down its trunk several times before he found a woodpecker’s abandoned nest hole. It was too early in the year for most nuts, so he gnawed on twigs, and after that he fell asleep almost immediately.

 

He woke to the dawn chorus. There were no Talking Birds here. All the Birds he knew of were back at the How, and there were few enough of them—mostly large predatory Birds like Owls and Hawks and Ravens, who had little fear of Men. He put his ear to the tree trunk and heard the gnawing of grubs within the bark, so he dug out a half dozen for his breakfast and then ran up to the top of the tree to make sure of his direction. To the north, beyond the edge of the wood, he could see the Great River gleaming faintly in the early morning light. The tributary flowing down to Beaversdam must be to the west, but he couldn’t see it amid the trees.

If anybody had been there to ask him, Pattertwig would have denied being weary. _A Squirrel is never sluggish_ , he told himself. Neither is a Squirrel made for endurance. But there was no remedy for this, so he set off once more on his journey.

Halfway through the morning he pushed off from a branch and felt a sudden pang of fear that the leap had not been powerful enough to carry him to the next tree. But the branch he was aiming for seemed to come up to meet him, and to his surprise he landed neatly. He continued on, wondering if he was imagining things. Before long he knew that what he had thought might be fancy was plain truth: the trees were helping him. He felt an extra push when he leapt, and the limbs of the next tree reached out to him, caught him, and then steadied under his paws. It began to feel like a dance: grasping, lifting, releasing. They were tossing him gently from one to the next, like a Daughter of Eve in a line dance.

He told himself that he did not need the help, but he was grateful for it all the same. His passage through the forest became breathtakingly swift. Now as he ran in along one of the tree’s limbs and out along the next, he sometimes thought he glimpsed an eye, an ear, a sheaf of hair, a mouth. The branches reaching out to him seemed like hands. But he was going too fast to be certain.

The dance went on for some hours, and Pattertwig felt such joy as he had rarely felt before. Now he was relying on the trees to guide him in the right direction. As he traveled north he saw more birches and pines. A little after noon he saw that he was coming to an open place and realized that he was nearing the river.

He had no time to wonder how he would cross. Instead, as he ran out along a branch that overhung the river, he felt a tremendous heave. For a few shocking moments he was a flying Squirrel, soaring over the river below! It was terrifying and wonderful. A pine on the opposite bank thrust out a limb and caught him, and he was both glad and sorry to have a sturdy branch under his paws again.

Now he was truly in the Lantern Waste. The forest on this side of the river was composed entirely of evergreens. It was darker, and the scent of pine resin was unfamiliar. But it smelled clean and fresh, and the air seemed cooler. The dance went on without pause as the afternoon wore on. He ran and leapt and ran again, trusting the trees, trusting his own instincts.

And then, abruptly, a tree rose up before him that was not a tree. It stood in the center of a small clearing, and it was made of that stuff that Men and Dwarfs work: iron. It was worn and pitted, a dark gray column streaked with rust. At the top of the column, a flame, barely visible in the afternoon light, burned within a little cage.

The Lantern. His journey was finished.

Pattertwig ran out to the end of the branch of the last tree facing the Lantern and halted. After long hours of running and jumping the sudden stillness made him feel dizzy. The trees were still and silent, and he wondered if he had imagined the way they had come to life under his paws. Perhaps…but no, he was certain. He could not have imagined the tree flinging him over the river. The trees were aware, their spirits awake.

And where was the help summoned by the Horn?

He searched the woods in an ever-widening circle around the Lantern, but eventually he was forced to admit that nobody was there. And there were no tracks or traces to indicate that anybody had come and gone. Help had come, he was certain of it; but not to the Lantern Waste. 

Pattertwig went back to the clearing and looked at the Lantern. The flame burned day and night, with nobody to see it. If legend was true, it had burned continuously for thousands of years, just in case somebody needed its light. Pattertwig wondered if the Lantern was alive, and if so, whether it felt discouraged that so few people over the centuries had ever made use of it.

Squirrels are naturally cheerful and gregarious, but there was nobody nearby to whom Pattertwig could tell his tale, nobody to listen and admire him. Almost for the first time in his life, he felt discouraged, let down. He sat on a branch facing the Lantern, thinking vaguely that he ought to find something to eat, but even though he was very hungry, he made no move to look for food. He supposed he would start back in the morning.

 _I am here_ , he thought. _I have done what I promised to do._ He sat up straighter. _I have not failed!_

Then, in the late afternoon light, he thought he saw a movement among the trees at the edge of the clearing. Perhaps it was only the last rays of the sun filtering through the branches, but it seemed to him that Something shone gold among the shadows. And as he watched, a great beast strode out of the forest and into the clearing, a Lion with a shining mane, more glorious than anything he had ever beheld. The Lion paused and rubbed his shoulder against the post of the Lantern, as a cat rubs against the leg of a table.

Pattertwig caught his breath. He had heard stories of Aslan his entire life, and yet he could scarcely believe his eyes.

The Lion approached. He smelled to Pattertwig like autumn, like acorns and dry leaves and the harvest, the rich smells of abundance. Pattertwig was perched on a high branch, but the Lion was so huge that they were staring straight into each other’s faces. Pattertwig held his breath as the Lion touched his nose to Pattertwig’s and breathed upon him. He immediately felt refreshed, ready to undertake another journey as arduous as the one he had just completed. He put out a trembling paw and touched the Lion’s golden mane.

“Well done, Pattertwig the Swift,” said the Lion, in a voice deep and resonant.

“Thank you, Aslan. But—what exactly have I done? Surely you do not need _me_ to bring you the news that Old Narnia has need of you.”

“Little one, you have done a very great deed. I came here to wake the trees, but you have already woken them.”

“I?”

“Yes. The trees felt your need, and though they did not entirely understand it, they roused themselves to help you. And those that you woke roused their neighbors. It is like throwing a stone into a pool—the ripples spread ever outward. Soon all the trees will wake.”

“But what did I do, Aslan? I wasn’t _trying_ to wake the trees.”

“You reminded them of purpose. Of action and motion. You reminded them that once they thought and spoke. They are ready now, and when I roar, they will emerge fully from their long sleep."

"But why now? Why me?" Pattertwig persisted. "Many other Squirrels must have traveled the High Road in these woods since the Telmarines came to Narnia. Many other Beasts must have passed this way on some urgent errand."

"Little one, even I do not know the answer to every mystery. But when all of the right elements are in place, then the smallest act by the smallest person can be of consequence. Tarva and Alambil have met in the heavens. Old Narnia has risen. The Horn has summoned the Kings and Queens of ancient days to Cair Paravel, and Trumpkin is even now leading them back to the How. All of these things no doubt played a part. Be content. You have done well.”

Pattertwig felt great peace and serenity, but he was a Squirrel and so could not stay still for long. “What must I do next, Aslan?” he asked.

“Sleep,” said the Lion, his voice full of amusement. “And in the morning, go down to the Great River and travel the High Road along the riverbank to Beruna. No doubt we will meet again there.”

“But…above the Archen the southern bank of the river is not wooded.”

“It will be, little one,” Aslan said. Then he turned and walked into the woods again, heading south and east, and as the shadows of the trunks fell upon him he seemed to vanish. Pattertwig saw the trees around him move and shift, as though they too were following Aslan with their gaze.

When Aslan was gone, he looked around the clearing and saw the great faces of the Pines, solemn and joyful, regarding him.

Tomorrow Pattertwig the Swift would run the High Road again. He would rejoin his comrades and tell his tale. But for now, he was content.

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the prompt: "How was life in Narnia after Prince Caspian? What did Trufflehunter get up to? How did Trumpkin know Glimfeather? How did the Owls know Puddleglum? What about Pattertwig's journey to the Lantern, for that matter?"
> 
> I have some thoughts on Puddleglum and the Owls, but they never quite gelled. Someday, maybe!
> 
> The map I use doesn't correspond exactly to either Pauline Baynes's version or the map associated with the movies. I've culled elements from both, but I've also relied on my own reading of _Prince Caspian_.
> 
> "Chiseller" is taken from the title of the rodent episode in the BBC _Life of Mammals_ series.
> 
> Many thanks to [Liz Culmer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer) for the beta!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fruitless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103182) by [Slant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slant/pseuds/Slant)




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